


Write To Me

by QueenoftheHobbits



Series: Soft Thighs Series [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s Bucky, F/M, Some angst, but also fluff, overweight reader, plus size reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:16:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6842269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheHobbits/pseuds/QueenoftheHobbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You hated going to dance halls, your friend ends up with 5 men on her arm and you end up with none...until that night and baby blue eyes. (1940s setting)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Write To Me

You hated going to dance halls, you hated it. Every time you’d get dolled up; curl your hair and pin it to perfection, pick your most flattering dress, the one that made your breasts look great and your legs amazing, that made you feel a little bit more confident, wear your only pair of silk stockings (since silk rationing had started), and preen and preen and preen until nothing was out of place...except your weight. And every time you’d go with your friend and stand by the bar a glass in your hand, and every time she’d have five men on her arm begging to dance with her, begging to walk her home, to kiss her goodnight...and you were left alone on a bar stool because they didn’t want you. Because your friend was a pin up in real life and you were...too voluptuous as your mother would say for them to be interested. You weren’t their perfect idea of a women, you weren’t ‘Darling Doris’ pinned up in their bunk room. 

Despite it all you went along every time because your friend would beg and beg and beg until the cows come home...and because you loved to dance you just didn’t have anyone to dance with, it was like you were constantly waiting, hoping, you just wanted someone, anyone to ask you to dance, just once. Was that too much to ask?

You sat at the bar nursing your drink, watching the couples dance around the room, and your friend flit from man to man a giggle almost constantly heard, and a coy smile on her lips. She, in your eyes, was everything you were not. Where you were large thighs, a soft round stomach, large arms, and stretch marks, she was slender legs, a flat stomach, and toned arms. You couldn’t help but be envious of her at times, of the attention she brought. Of the attention you never got.

A soldier came to stand next to you by the bar, you ignored him assuming he was getting a drink for his date, until he leant against the bar, taking his cap off of his combed brunet hair and looking over at you. 

“What’s a pretty dame like you doing all alone?” He had a boyish smile that crossed his face, he was older than some of the boys in uniform you saw, but still seemed young, perhaps because of the way his eyes lit up and his lips curved. Like he was full of life.

“You talking to me?” You hadn’t expected him to talk to you, to actually be talking to you. Handsome men like that, handsome men intending to go off to war didn’t talk to you, not like that. They might ask you to move or say excuse me if they bumped into you, but they never had any interest in you.

“Well, do you see another pretty girl around?” You felt your face flushing with heat, all the way from your neck up to your cheeks, and awkwardly coughed clearing the words stuck in your throat because this attractive man was talking to you and...that just didn’t happen. Part of you wondered if it was a sick joke, but a quick glance around revealed that no one was interested in the two of you and your interactions at all. 

“I see a lot of pretty girls around.” Your eyes jumped to your friend who was on the arm of yet another man, she looked happy, and safe, but you couldn’t help the heavy feeling in your chest...she was pretty. You weren’t typically considered a pretty girl. Words from the boys back in school ran through your head, rejections, and fake askings out, and laughter, so much laughter at your expense. School wasn’t kind to you.

“And yet you’re the prettiest my eyes have seen all night, doll” The sincerity and charm in his statement matched with the intense stare (that had you been standing would have made your knees weak) made you blush heavily, especially with the way his eyes glided over your form from your heeled feet to your thick thighs, to the roundness of your hips and stomach and up to your eyes. 

“Oh...um...really?” You let out a shaky breath, watching as he held out his hand for yours. It was one of those hands; broad, strong, rough from work, a little scarred from what you assumed were fights, but gentle and strong and rather attractive for a hand at least (You’d never thought on anyone’s hand so much before). You placed yours in his, and blushed further when he raised it to his plump lips, placing a chaste kiss on the surface of what you had always thought were inelegant, fat looking hands, but that in that moment looked like any hand you’d ever seen on any other women who’d been kissed. They looked damn near perfect in that moment.

“I’m James, but everyone calls me Bucky.”

“Y/N” Your hand was still clasped in Bucky’s, his smile was firmly in place, one eyebrow raised in a cocksure way that might have seemed arrogant and unappealing on anyone else, but on him just made you more endeared towards him. He had a boyish charm about him that you worried would one day get lost...and maybe that’s why you felt more and more comfortable with him and less like he was entertaining the fat girl out of sympathy or other cruel reasons. Because he was a nice guy, a decent guy, with boyish charm, and a sincerity that you rarely saw these days.

“Well, Y/N, would you mind if I had this dance?” He stepped a little further away from you, tugging lightly at your hand, still giving you that opening to pull away and say no. Something told you he got a lot of female attention, and it surprised you that he’d want to dance with you...there was insecurity but also pride about it. Because this cocky, handsome man in uniform who seemed to be a popular man with the women was offering you his hand and not any of the number of beautiful women in that room, not the women like your friend who you’d always been so envious of. He was asking _you._

“Are you sure?” You needed to ask, worried if this was out of sympathy or pity, and not genuine want to dance with you, because you wanted to dance with him...but you needed to know that he wanted to dance with you. 

“Absolutely.” Your tongue slide over your lip as you searched his eyes for anything but genuine want to dance with you, the darting of his eyes to your lip and smile that twisted his own had you agreeing, “Okay.” His cap found its way onto your head, you giggled at its placement, it was a bit large on your head and covered your eyes, but Bucky didn’t seemed to mind as he dragged you by the hand into the crowds of dancing couples.

You tried not to think too much, not to think about how his hand on your waist could feel the dips and curves, to not think about how the angle he was looking down at you with was perhaps not so flattering, to not think about how his hand was so much more slender and elegant than yours that it held...

“I don’t get asked to dance very often...” You spun around the floor with him, looking up into blue eyes. You weren’t quite sure why you said it, but you felt like you could tell him, like he was a guy who fully appreciated you even though he only knew your name.

“Really? Well, I say that’s their loss then, my gain, and certainly yours too, doll...if they can’t see how beautiful you are then...they don’t deserve to dance with a dame like you.” You looked down at your feet at the sweet words, not protesting one bit when Bucky pulled you closer to him, not even worrying about how he felt about your body anymore because he said those words...and you knew he meant them. He meant so many hidden things in those words; that you were beautiful, that your size was part of that, that those men were wrong, that you were worth dancing with...that he thought you were worth dancing with...that he thought he was lucky to get to dance with _you_. No one had ever thought they were lucky to dance with you, no one had ever revelled in feeling your waist or holding your hand, or twisting about on a dance floor chest to chest. 

“Well...i’m glad you’re worthy then, soldier.” And it was oddly confident of you, no longer avoiding his gaze, but rather holding eye contact because you trusted him, you liked him, and in the space of a few minutes he’d made you feel better about yourself then anyone had done in years of your life. Simply by being himself, and by telling you what he thought. 

It was the first time you didn’t feel imaginary eyes judging your every move, or watching your body waiting for any imperfection. Because you were caught up in the eyes of a boyish man who thought you were worthy. Worthy of a dance, of kind words, of that look that sped your heart up, and had you slightly stumbling on your toes. 

What seemed like such a short night was actually an incredibly long one, what seemed like minutes of dancing was actually hours, until Bucky pulled the two of you to a stop and rescued his cap from your head. His teeth nipping into his bottom lip, in a way that drew your eyes before he let out a surprisingly nervous breath. 

“Look...it’s late and...and I wouldn’t feel good if I let you walk home by yourself y’know? So..would you mind if I walked you to your door?” You merely grabbed his hand and lead him from the dance hall, a guy had never offered to walk you home...except the odd male friends and friends of friends that had gone to school with you and would have felt ‘ungentlemanly’ if they didn’t walk you back and knew they’d get a clip round the ear from your mother or their own. 

Once outside the dance hall Bucky laced your arm through his and followed your walking direction through the streets of Brooklyn. You were surprised to find that you didn’t mind the contrast of your soft large arm against his more defined one, that actually it felt good...not self-conscious or worrying, but good.

It was surprisingly warm night that evening and you found your gaze flitting over to Bucky’s profile, gliding over his jaw, his cheek bones, his nose, his eyes, the little smile that seemed to stay on his face as he gazed around at the streets...your eyes met his and his smirk as he caught your staring, and you averted your gaze quickly, feeling silly for gazing for so long...but damn if he didn’t cut a sharp profile.

You reached your apartment building door far too quickly for your liking, and was surprised when Bucky insisted on walking to your front door rather than simply the door to your apartment block. Your block mostly consisted of elderly women and a few families, Mrs Fisher was your favourite neighbour, she brought you pie regularly and was a sweet old women who’d tell you nice things about yourself and little stories every time you saw her. She would have been asleep hours ago. 

“Well, this is me...” Your door was rather battered, showing its age, and the fact that the apartment block had seen better days, but it held up and did the job of safe guarding you from the outside world. You leant lightly against the door, something you usually wouldn’t do in front of someone worried the door would creak with your weight or that you’d somehow make them think about it...but you found yourself not caring in front of Bucky. 

“I had fun tonight, doll.” The cap had come off again, held in his hands like any respectable man...his manners around you were rather surprising, but you liked it. Liked that he seemed to want to keep a lasting good impression. “Me too, James.” 

He lingered by you and your door and a shocking burst of courage filled you, you weren’t sure if it was euphoria from dancing all night or that Bucky filled you with a comfortable confidence about yourself, about your body, but you felt brave in that moment. Your hands reaching up to grip at the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down to kiss him with red coated lips...and it was the first real kiss you’d had and it was the best thing you thought you’d ever felt before. The way one of his hands slipped away from his cap and cupped your jaw, the way your lips moved against his lightly, the way he pressed hard into you, your back hitting your door, the creak being something joyful rather than sorrowful...and the way he rested his forehead against yours as you pulled apart, looking at you with a type of awe you’d never seen before. Like you were art. Like you were special and beautiful and everything he ever wanted and everything he could see.

“I’m shipping out soon...would you write to me?” There was the hidden message in there, the hidden whisper _‘would you wait for me?’_

“Yeah, James, I’ll write to you.” _I’ll wait for you._ You breathed out against his lips and felt yourself tearing up lightly at the thought that this amazing man was about to leave to fight a bloody war, that he might not come back from, that you’d only get one night and a few letters with him and nothing more. You didn’t realise you were crying until a thumb wiped away the trails of tears that fell over your round cheeks.

“Don’t cry, doll...this is only the beginning.” And you believed him with every ounce of your being, and you let him walk away knowing he’d write to you at the first available opportunity, that...that even if you didn’t see him again after this moment you’d get those letters, you’d get the memory of him appreciating you for who you were, for finding your body beautiful for its size not in spite of its size. You’d get the memory of him and that boyish smile and everything that that meant to you and his profile forever burnt into your memory, the feeling of his hand in yours, of his lips against yours...you’d have that...and if you were so lucky and if God so saw fit at the end of that godforsaken war you’d have him back in your arms smirking at you and placing his cap on your head and calling you doll all over again like it was the first time. 


End file.
